A Bit Tired
by hujwernoo
Summary: An outsider sees a moment between the Winchesters. Gen, oneshot. Outsider POV, post Season 6.


**Hey, everybody! This is my first SPN fanfic, so be nice. I love outsider POV, and the boys are so interesting when viewed by someone with no knowledge of them.**

**And, um, *cough cough*, um, a note. I've only watched to the middle of Season 3. I know pretty much everything that happens afterward, though. I just thought I'd give seeing Sam with Lucifer in his head a go. Tell me if I got anything wrong, though I made it vague enough that I hope I skipped over any errors.**

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I was so tired I almost missed the jingle of the bell on the doorway. _Dingading._ And believe me, when you're zoned out enough to nearly miss_ that,_ then you know you should really get to bed before you fall over on top of the merchandise and have to pay for anything broken out of your paycheck. I spend thirty hours a week hearing that bell, so it spoke to how much I needed a break.

But, as the bell did, in fact, ring, that meant customers. Which meant I needed to focus. I could go home in a couple hours and let the next girl take over.

I hoped it wouldn't be kids again, kids who looked and touched and messed up shelves but never bought anything. At the moment, I could barely summon up the energy to turn my head.

I blinked.

It wasn't like the two guys were the strangest people I've ever seen. Believe me, I've seen a lot of bizzare people. Convenience stores are open to everybody, so _everybody_ comes. So these guys shouldn't have looked different to me from the usual fare.

But they did.

I don't know what tipped me off. They weren't any burlier than some truckers we get, nor any dirtier than some kids. They weren't dressed nearly as rough as bikers, nor looked as shifty as potential shoplifters.

It was more in the way they moved. The taller one, there was something off with him. With the way he carried himself.

A second later I realized it. He _wasn't_ carrying himself, not completely. He was leaning on the shorter man, who was actually only short in comparison to his companion. Just slightly, barely noticeable, but it caught my eye. I wondered if he was as tired as I was.

The shorter man (who was, I noticed, from a purely objective standpoint, rather nice to look at) put his hand on the taller's arm, bent his head closer and asked in a low, concerned voice, "How is it?"

I blinked again. Shorty, while not giving off the vibe of a mass-murderer, hardly looked like someone who would willingly show concern for another human being. He had the look of one of those guys who hung out in bars, hustled pool and picked up women with ease. Not like someone who put a hand on someone's shoulder and asked about their wellbeing.

Goliath frowned, and some of the fog lifted from my mind, sending up little warning signals.

Because Goliath's frown hadn't been one of annoyance or anger. It was slow, languid, confused. Like he recognized someone was speaking to him but didn't quite comprehend what was being said.

Like something was wrong.

Worry rose inside me. Some people came in who were tired, looking for the little bottles of 5-Hour Energy by the register or cups of coffee to stay awake during long night drives. Some people had the flu and came in searching for the tiny pharmaceutical section.

But, on closer scrutiny, Goliath wasn't tired or sick. He looked_ hurt_, injured in some way and too messed up in the head to walk properly.

Which explained Shorty's concern. I cleared my throat and asked, "Is he okay?"

Shorty flicked his eyes up and gave a curt 'yeah'.

Goliath made a soft sound, and Shorty shifted so he was giving more support, looking into the vacant gaze. His voice instantly softened, becoming low and soothing and reassuring Goliath that it was okay.

And just like that, I was dismissed from existence. It was like I had never even spoken aloud.

Goliath made a sound like he was trying to talk, and his eyes fixed on somewhere to the right of Shorty's shoulder. The frown became a little deeper, and he awkwardly jerked his head away and said something that might have been "le'me 'lone."

A shadow passed over Shorty's face, and he said, "You tell 'em, Sammy."

Holy hell.

Goliath - Sammy - was clearly mentally ill. That was…wow. Okay, I might have seen a few unbalanced customers before, but they were usually the kind of people who just lose it when things don't go their way. That was pretty much the extent of my experience.

Shorty and Goliath ('Sammy' sounded like the kind of nickname only people close to him were allowed to call him, which I certainly wasn't) moved carefully into the store. I kept a close eye on Goliath, at the same time wondering why. What was I gonna do, call the police? He wasn't doing anything wrong. Yet, anyway.

I shook my head and gave myself a stern chastisement. _Get ahold of yourself right now, young lady. YOU do not know these men, so do not try to think of what the best thing for them is. This is THEIR business, and you are not the judge of the universe._

They moved down the shelves, and I noticed how Shorty didn't remove his hand. Goliath didn't seem to mind, shuffling slowly and looking like he was trying very hard to ignore something. Voices?

I felt like giggling and crying at the same time, because the whole 'hearing voices' thing was _such_ a cliche, but looking at Goliath it didn't feel the least bit funny at all.

They stopped (or, to be accurate, Shorty stopped and Goliath followed his lead) at the section of packaged tv dinners, cheap meals that could be ready within five minutes. Shorty's eyes flicked over the shelves, and he turned to say, "Hey, man."

Goliath didn't answer, looking at something that I felt certain wasn't really there.

"Hey," Shorty said, stronger, more insistently, "Sam."

Goliath's head turned to look at Shorty, who gestured to the shelves and asked, "What do you want to eat?"

Goliath looked at the shelves with faint surprise, as if just noticing they were there. He stared for a few moments, eyes wandering over the packages.

Then his jaw tightened, a muscle jumping on his neck. Shorty saw it too, and I could almost hear his mental cursing. He looked like someone who would know a lot of them.

Without taking his eyes off Goliath, Shorty grabbed two random packages, tucked them under his arm and cautiously started towards the back.

Thankfully, Goliath moved with him, tearing his eyes from the shelves with a visible swallow. He looked sickened, and I was suddenly pretty sure I didn't want to know what put that expression on him. He reached up a hand to grasp the edge of Shorty's jacket.

They reached the beverage section, held behind refrigerated glass doors. Somehow managing to avoid making sudden movements, Shorty smoothly opened the door and pulled out a half-gallon jug of apple juice.

There was no warning. Goliath made a panicked sound, abruptly pulled the jug from Shorty's hand and threw it down the aisle.

I jumped, and went completely still.

Shorty didn't. He dropped the tv dinners and grabbed Goliath's forearms, shifting himself so that Goliath's back was to the freezer door but not pushed against it and they were standing face to face. "Sam?"

Goliath didn't try to move, eyes still fixed on the jug. It hadn't broken, just slid halfway down so that it was closer to me than them.

"Sam," Shorty said again, and he moved so that he was blocking the view of the jug.

Goliath blinked, meeting Shorty's eyes. He swallowed, and coughed.

The two stood like that for a few seconds, where I couldn't get a clear view of either of their faces. A silent communication passed between them, something I doubt I would have been able to decipher even if I had seen their expressions.

FInally Shorty stepped back and said, "Okay." It was a question and an answer and a reassurance all at once, and I got the feeling it affected Goliath more than any other voice whispering in his ear.

Shorty scooped up the dinners, and they made their way up to my register. I rang up the packages, trying to imitate Shorty's fluid movements. I don't know if I did a good job, but I didn't seem to startle Goliath any.

They didn't go near the apple juice.

I handed Shorty the change when I was done. I didn't know what else to do, so I gave him a tiny smile.

He blinked, paused, and gave a small nod.

Then they were gone.

I don't know how long I stood there, mulling over what I had seen. There was something there, between those two, that spoke of hardship, troubles so great that the world was on their shoulders. That they had been to Hell and back, fighting the entire way.

I breathed out. Whatever it was, I hoped they could weather through.

I came out from behind the register to pick up the juice. It wasn't dented, so I judged it would be okay to put back. I walked over to the fridge and pulled open the door.

I had never noticed it before, but in the right light, the honey-gold color of apple juice looked deeper, darker, almost like -

I shuddered, and put the jug back.

I prayed those two would be okay.


End file.
